


visions from windows

by Kaynara



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: F/F, M/M, Multi, Other, Warnings in individual chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-01-10 18:53:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12305505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaynara/pseuds/Kaynara
Summary: visions from windows, or: tiny scenes that get stuck in my mind that i can't make a full fic of6. even goes to cascabel hungrier than usual





	1. now that we're older, maybe wiser

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: there may be weird timeline discrepancies and things in these because i haven't managed to relisten to all eps. please forgive me. rating, category etc. subject to change with later chapters
> 
> 1\. sokrates and orth, and trying to work together after the september incident  
> 2\. hadrian thinks of his gods, together  
> 3\. samot, samothes, and a quiet moment on high sun day  
> 4\. blake and adaire share a dance on a job  
> 5\. it's hard to ignore a goddess in your head, even if hella wants to  
> 6\. even goes to cascabel hungrier than usual

When Orth steps onto the observation deck of the Callisto Two, he’s struck first by the bitter smell of coffee mixing with the heated metallic smell of a new ship, distractingly familiar. By the time he shakes it off and looks around, Sokrates has stood to welcome him, smiling slightly. They’re taller than he remembers, or maybe he’s shorter, because they have to bend a little to kiss him politely on the cheek, those few scales brushing oddly against his skin. They look exhausted, dark purple blooming under their eyes despite efforts to cover it with liberal applications of golden eyeshadow.

Orth looks Sokrates over as he steps back, taking in the cream coloured robes, the ornate gold jewellery adorning their fingers. There’s a stiff high collar almost brushing their jaw around the sides of their neck, but the neckline plunges halfway down their chest, leaving a narrow strip of olive skin and a few more golden chains exposed. He had always known they were royalty, but this is the first time they’ve looked the part. Even their hair, usually curly and wild around their head, is tamed and slicked back into something more suitable for high society.

“I thought you were trying to leave the royalty thing behind with the Empire.”

A wry smile twists their features, and Sokrates throws their arms up in a wild shrug.

“Some of the old guard feel happier when I’m all dolled up, and I don’t mind indulging every once in a while. Besides, this is tame for me. You should have seen my outfit for little Cassander's choosing ball.” An exaggerated wink, and Orth chuckles slightly, relieved. He hadn’t known what to expect but this feels comfortable. Nostalgic, almost.

“How have you been, Sokrates?”

“Keeping busy, y’know, a little of this, a little of that. Worked my way to the top of the Ethnologistical Society, staged a coup, helped start a new galactic power. Caught up on my reading list along the way.”

Orth smiles, shaking his head at them, privately envying their nonchalant disposition towards the heaviest of subjects.

“Any run-ins with Ibex?” His voice is steady in this moment, at least. He’s proud of himself for that, even all these years later.

“Not yet. Not for lack of trying either.” Sokrates runs a hand through their hair and sighs. Long-burning anger heats their voice. “Believe me, you’d know. I’d have that asshole up on every newscast apologizing to everyone he’s ever hurt, and then some.”

“Do you regret your time with us, back then? Because of Ibex?”

Sokrates laughs, and it’s slightly more bitter than it ever was back in the fleet.

“What should I regret? I was trying my hardest to make what we were doing an example to the whole galaxy. To show everyone that it didn’t have to be OriCon versus the Diaspora versus Apostolos. Of course, you all turned on us, on me, the minute Ibex pulled out one message. From someone missing their friend.”

They pace away, turn and look out to the stars, pinpricks in the dark. Orth sees their hands shake ever so slightly where they’re clasped behind their back.

“But look what I’m doing now.” A pause. Orth wants to move up, to rest a hand on their shoulder, but he doesn’t know if it’d be welcome anymore.

“I didn’t let it break me. I didn’t give up the way the rest of you did. I did it. I helped make the Demarchy, and it’s for everyone that needs it. So no, I don’t regret any of it. It all led me here, to better things for everybody.”

Their hands are still now. Orth clears his throat awkwardly.

“I appreciate everything you’ve done for us, Sokrates. We all made mistakes on those ships.”

They snort at that, with genuine amusement this time. “You most of all, perhaps.”

Orth nods, slowly, even though they can’t seem him. It’s a fair assessment. Unlike them, he has plenty of regrets from that time.

Sokrates turns back around, posture formal and almost as regal as the one Cassander settles into when they’re laying out a plan. But Sokrates’ gaze is still less guarded, a bit more playful than Cass is even on their best days, bright like sunlight dancing over a deep pool.

Orth pushes on, fingers laced together in front of himself. He knows how to stand up to people now, and he looks Sokrates right in the eyes. Doesn’t think of Ibex whispering softly in his ear.

“We need you to do more. We all have to make sacrifices if we want to survive Rigour.”

“Excuse me?” An eyebrow raised, expression suddenly flat on their face.

“The Demarchy is new, yes, but we cannot let your contributions to the coming war be small on account of that. I know you want to be well-liked, Sokrates, but it’s not enough for a former Empire to coast by-“

“You sound just like him.”

Sokrates’ expression is stone now, darker than Orth has ever seen it. He winces, runs his words back through his head again, trying to figure out where he went wrong.

“What do you know about our Eidolons, Godlove?”

Orth only shakes his head, not wanting to make it worse. Sokrates laughs, meaner than before. Dread drips coldly down his spine.

“I have lived my life in the image of Apole. Eidolon of the collection of resources. Of family.” Another strained bark of laughter. “And of personal sacrifice _._ ”

Orth finds his voice again, tries to apologise, hands fluttering up in an attempt to placate. “Sokrates-”

“No. Listen to me. I cut myself off from my family, from my people, everything I’d ever known, to make the galaxy safe. I have spent the last decade working to make the sector better while you’ve been sat in an office pushing papers and dreaming about your glory days.”

They take a step forward and Orth remembers how they had forced even Ibex into a temporary submission. He’s not afraid of Sokrates. _He’s not._ They were friends once, he thinks. But…it’s been a long time. They hadn’t parted on the best of terms, to put it lightly.

Sokrates tugs their high collar down with a jerky hand, revealing a silvery metal curve clamped onto their neck, geometric black-blue lines of bruises spreading over their skin from where it has dug itself into their body. Nausea rises up in Orth’s stomach. He had heard rumours, but he hadn’t known exactly how horrific it would be. He can see it move, clench tighter as he watches, and Sokrates shudders, tries to hide it with a sweep of their arm as they gesture wildly.

“I have endured becoming a _fucking_ Candidate. I’ve given up my body to Integrity so that I can do what needs to be done. And I have never, ever let someone innocent take a fall to make things easier for myself.” The words are pouring out, white-hot with anger and desperation. He’s not even sure Sokrates is talking to him anymore.

“No trade offs. No acceptable losses. No compromising others in the name of the greater good.”

Sokrates keeps coming forward, looming over him slightly now, their eyes chips of flint in a face he’s sure had graced many Apostolisian statues before they betrayed the Empire. He doesn’t imagine any of them captured this expression though, anger threatening to break and spill over like waves on a shore.

“Don’t talk to me about sacrifice, now, or ever again, Godlove.”

Orth opens his mouth, closes it again. He hadn’t meant for it to go so badly. He was meant to be better at this by now.

“Get out.”

 

* * *

 

Orth gets a message three days later, when he’s sitting in a featureless hotel room and halfway through a lukewarm coffee.

_Hey Orth,_

_Sorry about all that. Bad few days, you know? The Demarchy is ready to help when you need. Just let me know._

   _ _\- S.__

He automatically writes a reply out, formal and fitting of a conversation between an Executive of OriCon and the founder of the Demarchy, a Candidate of the Diaspora, a descendant of the last Apokine of Apostolos.

He reads it back over and makes a face, disgusted with himself for the flowery affectations, the forced distance in every word. He rereads Sokrates’ message, hopes it’s sincere. Starts again.

_Sokrates -_

_Thank you. I look forward to working with you again._

_Yours,_

_Orth Godlove_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooooo one of my favourite artists did art of sokrates being fancy™, pleaseeee go admire it, i'm in love: https://twitter.com/drowzydruzy/status/931005933676908545


	2. cathedral where you cannot breathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hadrian thinks of his gods, together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> does this fit in the timeline? maybe just barely. kinda nsfw, but nothing super explicit

Samol tells them the whole story - of Samothes and Samot and the city they tore apart between them.

The revelation that Samothes is dead and was replaced by some kind of… _imitation_ is devastating. Of course it is. But Hadrian also knows, in his heart, that the real Samothes is still out there. As if a blade - any blade - could truly kill the Artificer-Divine.

More pressing is the thought that Samot and Samothes were once lovers.

It starts innocently enough, at first.

He wonders how two such different gods first met, how they managed to have a civil conversation. Hadrian spends hours wondering what common ground they could have found to talk about. Politics, maybe, but with further thought he dismisses it as unlikely. Simpler pleasures then - food perhaps, or the beauty of the world.

Eventually he gives up on trying to imagine the exact topics of their conversation, instead thinks of them laughing, joking together. Happiness for them both, once.

It only develops from there. The two of them, stealing away to meet, giving each other gifts. A kiss. An irrevocable change.

He pictures it differently each time - Samot laughing, dazzlingly bright, leaning in to press his lips to Samothes’ for a moment before pulling away with a teasing smirk. A glorious sunset behind them, lighting their silhouettes on fire as Samothes pulls Samot against him, kissing him slow and deep before pulling back to whisper in his ear. A semi-friendly argument that ends with mouths clashing instead of words.

Then, one night, his mind wanders to bedrooms, and to Samot pushing Samothes against a wall to kiss him more fiercely, hands snaking down between bodies as they push against each other.

In his mind, Samot drops to his knees, drags his nails down Samothes’ thighs, hard enough that the King-God’s head falls back with a groan.

In his bed, Hadrian can feel himself hardening, hear his breath coming quicker. There’s a twinge of guilt as he moves his hand down between his legs to palm himself, but he ignores it to focus on the sensations. Time for that later.  


It’s easy enough to let the fantasy take him from there. To let himself think he’s there with them.

He imagines being told to kneel, and to watch, and not to make a sound. Pictures himself cold and wanting on the floor as they fuck in front of him, their moans making him shiver and clench his hands at his sides as he tries desperately to obey, biting his lip so hard he tastes copper.

He’s close already.

Thoughts of Samothes, a warm smile, warmer hands embracing him. Affection, pride, safety.

“That’s it, Hadrian.”

_ Not enough. _

Samot’s violet eyes meeting his, afterwards, as he’s stretched out languid and sated on the bed next to Samothes. His expression bordering on divinely disdainful as Hadrian awaits judgement.

“Go on, paladin.”

Hadrian comes with a hand pressed over his mouth, covering his gasps, thinking of his gods.

Afterwards, he rolls over and considers making an apology prayer to Samothes, then thinks better of it. He’d rather not bring divine attention to what he’s just been doing.

* * *

The next time he sees either of them, he’s in a dream, watching Samot pore over a pile of papers. The god glances up from his work, looks Hadrian over, smirks at him knowingly.

“You’ve been thinking of me.”

He flushes and looks away. Tries to think of Samothes. Thinks of them both instead.

Samot’s smile widens, his teeth sharper than any human’s.

“Oh, the things I could tell you.”

Hadrian’s wordless as Samot gets up and stalks towards him, eyes sharp. A pale hand comes up to touch his face, and Samot runs his knuckles over Hadrian’s cheek, still smiling, tired but breathtakingly beautiful.

“Or maybe I should just show you, hmm?”

Hadrian’s breath catches in his throat and his heart pounds as Samot leans in, closer and closer until Hadrian closes his eyes instinctively. He hears a quiet laugh, feels a faint breath over his lips before…nothing.

When he opens his eyes again he’s back in the mansion - alone, and guilty, and longing.


	3. can't take my eyes off you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the end of a high sun day, and a quiet moment between two gods in love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was feeling very sad about them when i started this, and it took far too long to write for what it is but here it is. pure, unrepentant sappy fluff. don't ask me about the legitimacy of fireworks here. for jane, ofc

The official High Sun Day celebrations are over, finally, and it’s late enough now that they can make excuses to their guests to disappear for a moment.

It’s selfish, perhaps, but Samot doesn’t particularly care, and he laughs as he pulls Samothes away from the crowd by the hand. It’s been a long day. High Sun Day always is, by definition, but it’s more than that. Even though it’s technically a celebration for Samothes, neither of them gets any rest, and dealing with the same political manoeuvring every year is beyond tiresome.

It’s nearly midnight, and the sun is almost gone as Samot leads them both up a grassy hill, just beyond the main celebrations. Bursts of laughter float from beyond the trees occasionally, no doubt due to the freely flowing wine Samot had so kindly provided for their guests.

He glances briefly at the sun, so close to disappearing over the horizon.

“It looks like your most beloved invention is almost gone for today.”

There’s an amused hum from behind him, and Samothes’ voice is warm and teasing when he replies.

“I swear it was just last week that you told me that you loved your new bookshelf more than anything I’d made before.”

Samot waves a hand dismissively.

“Most beloved by the people, of course. It’s very impressive, but I remember a time before the sun. And besides-” He glances back to Samothes, grins wide, showing all his teeth. “My eyes are _very_ good in the dark.”

He sees Samothes shiver slightly, and leans in to give him a quick kiss on the cheekbefore pushing him down to sit on the slope. Samothes lets himself be guided, keeps his eyes on Samot, gaze trusting and steady. For a moment Samot lets himself be overwhelmed slightly, warmed by the open affection that Samothes is always so free with. He leans back in again, for a deeper kiss this time, before settling himself between Samothes’ legs, leaning back on his chest to look up at the sky.

Arms come up to circle him in a warm embrace, and Samot sighs, tipping his head back onto his husband’s shoulder. The metal circlet encircling his head digs in slightly, uncomfortable, and he shifts with a grumble. Before he manages to reach up to remove it, Samothes’ fingers are there already, deft and clever as he removes it without getting it tangled in Samot’s hair.

The murmuring of the celebration in the distance gives way to the faint sound of Samol’s guitar, somehow drifting its way to them as Samothes strokes his fingers through Samot’s hair, gently getting rid of the tangles.

“It’s very calm here, love, but I do need to see to my delegates eventually.” Samothes murmurs, leaning forward and pressing his lips to Samot’s head softly.

“A few more minutes. I instructed my mages to help with the celebrations this year.”

Samothes’ fingers in his hair still, and Samot tilts his head back to meet his husband’s eyes, smirking.

“Don’t worry. Just a little addition to your standard light show. You’ll enjoy it, I promise.”

Samothes grumbles slightly but his fingers start moving again, this time in a familiar pattern as he starts to pull Samot’s hair into a loose but intricate braid. The movements are slow but sure, and Samot closes his eyes as he truly relaxes for the first time in days.

They sit like that for a few moments, Samothes’ eyes furrowed in concentration as he finishes weaving the strands in place. A content smile flickers across Samot’s face as Samothes laces their fingers together and squeezes gently.

Without warning, the sky above them bursts into rays of multi-coloured light, crackling like thunder. Almost immediately, the mages’ alterations are clear. The colours linger for minutes at a time as more fireworks explode, slowly painting layers of light into the sky.

Samothes raises an eyebrow, impressed despite himself. It’s glorious, the sky blazing blue-green above them, then purple, and then on through what seems like every colour imaginable.

“I was going to have them display scenes from your glorious reign, but then I thought that we’d want _something_ different to look forward to for next year. So I had them keep it abstract for now.”

Samothes shifts his gaze away from the sky to see Samot’s eyes wide open, drinking in the sight above them despite his unaffected tone. It’s usually easy to forget how different Samot is to the rest of the pantheon, how he takes such joy simply in existing in a physical form. Occasionally though, it’s all too obvious.

Not shifting his gaze from the display, Samot’s mouth twists a little, his forehead wrinkling in irritation as he senses Samothes watching him.

“You’re not paying attention.”

“I’ve been distracted by something far more beautiful,” Samothes teases.

Samot rolls his eyes slightly, but he’s smiling as he shifts, manoeuvring them both so he’s sitting across Samothes’ lap, and then leans in, pressing their foreheads together gently and draping his arms around his husband's neck. Cherry-red light bursts in the sky, sending colour and sharp shadows dancing across his face. Samothes’ breath catches in his throat.

“It’s a wonder,” Samot murmurs fondly, “that Ingenuity Alive, the King-God himself, can so easily be reduced to the sweetest of sentiments.”

Samothes leans up instead of answering, gently tugging Samot into a kiss and feeling hands twine into his own hair in response. They stay like that for a moment more, trading soft, quick kisses back and forth as the colours dissolve above and around them.

Samot draws back eventually, cheeks slightly flushed. "You have delegates to see to, remember?"

He laughs at the moody scowl he gets in reply and rises to his feet, graceful, to offer a hand to where Samothes is still sitting.

A beat of silence, as he pulls Samothes up with a smirk.

"...Time for that later, hmm?"


	4. take this precious treasure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> two very different thieves, a necklace, and a dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kei pointed out there was no blake bromley fic on ao3, and a) i love this very good thief and b) i love to be first. also blake should kiss adaire. 
> 
> this was all written in about an hour after absolutely no sleep but i like it at the moment anyway so you can all take it before i look at it too long

Adaire shouldn’t have brought Blake along to this thing, but they hadn’t stopped asking questions about the job, and then they had argued eloquently that two thieves with such complementary styles as their own would be much more effective at casing the mansion than one. It’s all led here - Adaire in her nicest green velvet dress, itchy at the shoulders, and Blake in an elegantly tailored suit that Adaire had reluctantly called in a favour for.  
  
Looking at them now though, confident and smirking at her from under their lashes, she privately thinks it was all worth it.  
  
The music is sedate, and the lamps are bright, casting warm light on the pretty baubles scattered around on display around the sides of the room. They’re not that valuable, not like what they’re actually aiming for at the end of all this, but they at least _look_ expensive, and Blake’s eyes keep wandering as they walk past.  
  
She spots their hand twitch out of the corner of her eye and represses an exasperated sigh as their eyes land on a emerald necklace, which, to be fair, very nearly looks real. Adaire intercedes, grabs Blake’s hand as it’s reaching out and intertwines their fingers tightly instead. She hears Blake inhale sharply in response, just a second before the party’s host, Lady Alder, turns to them with a quizzical, but polite smile.  
  
“You must be…?”  
  
“Ducarte. Adaire and Blake Ducarte.”  
  
She curtseys slightly and Blake mumbles something inaudible, clearly uncomfortable, and does a half-bow.  
  
Alder smiles, coldly. Crystals, real ones, shimmer in a net over her dark hair.  
  
“A pleasure, I’m sure. I don’t believe we’ve met.”  
  
“Oh, you’d remember us,” Blake tries, grinning, and admirably manages not to wilt when she turns an icy eye their way.  
  
“Evidently. I’m sure there’ll be plenty of time to get to know each other during the dinner.”  
  
She eyes them both, eyes clearly lingering on the cheap embroidery on Adaire’s dress.  
  
“Are you going to be dancing with us?” She asks eventually, gesturing to the center of the room where there are already a few couples dancing, and Adaire smiles, practiced, and nods.  
  
“But of course,” she replies smoothly, and squeezes Blake’s hand. There’s a moment of hesitation and then they squeeze back.  
  
Hyperaware of her own footsteps she leads Blake onto the floor. Nobody’s watching them specifically - even Alder has already turned her attention away - but something is making her palms sweat anyway.  
  
“You told her our real names,” Blake mutters petulantly as they walk, their free hand coming up to run through their hair in an apprehensive gesture.  
  
“I told her my real name. We’ve got to make a good impression, Blake. Adaire Ducarte is a known socialite in these parts, she needs to be able to confirm my story.”  
  
They don’t look convinced, and she sighs.  
  
“Listen: we do this right, we walk away a lot richer and with a brand new contact who’s just _so_ grateful for all our help with the investigation.”  
  
They hum to themself for a moment, thinking, and then grin up at her.  
  
“Always a wonder to watch you work, Adaire,” they purr, and turn with ease to offer her a hand for the dance.  
  
It’s awkward, with the height difference, but Adaire’s had some practice at Rosemerrow balls before, and they make it work. Before too long, they’re moving around the floor, pressed together in a close waltz as they spin slowly.  
  
She can feel the warmth of them everywhere - their hand on her waist, their blue eyes intent on hers. There’s something here, past the innocent flirtations they’ve been exchanging for as long as they’ve known each other, and as she thinks it Blake looks away, pink colouring the tips of their ears.  
  
The tension is there, but then again, it always is. Adaire considers her options for a second, eyes darting around for anybody watching them, and then leans down to whisper in their ear. There’s a familiar thrill at the way they have to obviously try, and fail, to suppress a shiver.  
  
“I didn’t expect you to be so good at this.”  
  
They recover quickly, to her slight dismay, not stumbling for even a single step.  
  
“You know me, Ducarte. Full of surprises.”  
  
They wink, and then there's a thumb brushing the back of her hand purposefully enough that she feels a spark run up her spine.  
  
A storm, building. She hopes.  
  
The song is ending, Adaire realises, and she looks around the floor to see with a twinge of surprise how many more people are around them now. She never noticed them filling up the floor.  
  
Blake taps her side gently with the hand resting on her waist, and she brings her attention back to them instantly.  
  
“You ready to go check the rest of this place out?”  
  
Adaire lets the moment stretch, tightens her grip on their shoulder ever-so-slightly to watch their blush spread subtly to the dusting of freckles on their cheeks.  
  
“Lead the way, _partner_.”


	5. whispers in the dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some things are impossible to explain to adaire, as much as hella might like to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for adelaide being v unhealthily possessive of hella. it's not good kids

The first time Hella kisses Adaire, quick and desperate by the dying embers of the campfire, Adelaide _screams_.

Hella reels back like she’s been burned, clutching her head as the goddess rages. It’s been weeks since she heard Adelaide chuckle in the back of her head and she had half hoped that was the end of it, that she was free at last.

Obviously not.

 _—how dare you, you are_ **_mine_** _, you will_ **_always_ ** _be mine, she will not touch you—_

It hurts more than she could ever describe, Adelaide’s fury ripping through her mind like a storm. There’s sound from nearby; Adaire, trying to talk to her.

She can’t answer. She can’t even focus on the words. Blood is dripping down her chin with how hard she’s biting down to stop herself begging Adelaide to have some mercy. Hella’s never begged for a release from pain in her life.

Adelaide calms slowly, her awareness flickering quick and bright over Hella’s agony, satisfied by it.

When Hella opens her eyes, Adaire is settled primly next to her still, eyes only a fraction wider than they had been, one hand resting gently on Hella’s arm.

“You’re hurt,” she says flatly, eyes sharp on Hella’s bloody lip, and she hands over a damp cloth wordlessly.

Hella takes it with an awkward nod, still dazed. She doesn’t notice the way Adaire is careful not to to brush their fingers together.

The blood has already seeped into her shirt, dark crimson marks at the neckline, but at this point Hella doesn’t really have any clothes that don’t have old blood stains on them somewhere. She cleans herself up as best she can anyway, and Adaire plucks the stained cloth back from her quickly.

There’s a few more seconds of silence, as Hella tries to think of a way she can explain without sounding insane, but as far she can tell, there isn’t one. Adaire saves her, again, as she sighs and rearranges her skirt before looking at her directly.

“Did you mean to do that?”

“What?” Hella replies, eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

“Kiss me.”

“Oh. Yes.”

Adaire nods once, and tilts her head.

“Then what was that?”

Hella looks away and chews at her lip automatically, tasting copper as it reopens the cut.

_She can’t have you._

Despite herself, Hella shivers.

“I— I just can’t do this right now.”

There’s a pause, and Hella looks back to see Adaire’s expression is cool, giving nothing away. It’s familiar. It’s the expression Adaire uses on marks, had used with her back when they barely knew each other and Hella feels hot guilt lick at her insides.

“I’m sorry, it’s not—”

“It’s fine, Hella. One kiss is nothing. Let’s forget it ever happened.”

The fire is almost completely out now, and there’s only the slivers of moonlight through the trees lighting Adaire’s face in white and silver. She’s beautiful, and Hella thinks for a moment, of how they were never meant to go to Nacre, and perhaps then…

Instead of continuing that train of thought, she just nods, and stands up, hovering uncomfortably.

“I’ll see you in the morning?”

Adaire just stares at her, and nods once, and Hella turns to go.

In her bedroll, later, she lets herself imagine it. She remembers the feel of catching Adaire in her arms, back before Old Man’s Chin. Thinks about her arms around Adaire in a different way, what gasps she might be able to pull from her with fingers and mouth instead.

Instead, she gets a pearl necklace pulled tight around her throat, cutting off her air, and she gasps, hands automatically scrabbling to pull it away and touching only skin.

The sensation is only there for a few seconds before it’s gone and Hella’s left panting for breath and with a heat simmering low in her stomach.

 _Mine,_ Adelaide whispers again, and Hella squeezes her eyes tightly shut, trying to ignore the thrill that goes up her spine at the word.

Sleep is a long time coming, that night.


	6. take all my inhibitions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> even goes to cascabel hungrier than usual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i started writing this in like january and it obviously doesn't fit canon now but i'm posting it anyway. warning for mild loss of autonomy thanks to the symbiote and ulterior motives/deceptive intentions. they deserve something fluffier than this but

There’s tech spread out all over the bench behind Cascabel, and god, it’s been weeks since Even last tasted anything as well made as Cascabel’s stuff. There’s some kind of sensor next to the gun Cascabel was just working on, sleek and glowing with a gentle blue light, and Even can’t quite look away.

Cascabel notices, and follows his gaze down before he picks up the gun with a slight laugh.

“What, is Grand not letting you have your old one back? Sensible of him, after the upgrades I made to it,” says Cascabel, shooting Even a grin before he lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Tell you what. If you really want, I’ll give you a special deal.”

“Hmm?” Even says, distracted as he watches the light play over the burnished metal oval on the table. It’s so _close_ , and it’s almost a physical hunger, the way he needs to touch it. There’s a dull, far away pain that registers slowly, as Even realises just how tightly he’s clenching his fists to stop himself reaching out.

“Sure bud, it’d only cost you dinner.”

Even manages to drag his gaze away at that, back to Cascabel’s face. He’s smirking ever so slightly, but mostly he just looks hopeful as he reaches up to brush his hair away from his eyes, flicking his gaze between the blaster in his hand and up through his eyelashes at Even.

“…I—”

Cascabel immediately looks away with a strained laugh, runs a hand through his hair jerkily and puts the gun back on the table. The sharp scrape of metal on metal sends longing shivers up Even’s spine.

“I was just joking, man, don’t worry about it, I can still set you up.”

Even wants to be able to reassure him, but the gnawing emptiness is agony at this point, and he can barely keep his thoughts together.

“No, Cascabel, I—”

He steps forward without meaning to, the symbiote almost screaming in his veins. Closer to Cascabel, but more importantly closer to the sensor. It’s like a magnetic pull, and it would be terrifying if he could think of anything else, but he can’t, and Even realises there’s no way he’ll be able to back away now. Which means letting Cascabel _see_ , letting him realise what Even has been doing. He would work it all out, everything with the bullets, he would know that Even was the one to endanger them all. No more friendly conversations, no more brief, comforting hands on his back from what feels like the only person who doesn’t look at him differently these days.

No more tech.

_…Or._

Even reaches out with one hand shakily, strokes Cascabel’s cheek with his thumb for a second and watches Cascabel’s eyes widen.

“Can I…”

Cascabel huffs out a surprised breath, but he leans into Even’s hand.

“Yeah… yeah.”

His voice is softer than Even’s ever heard it. The guilt is sickening in Even’s stomach for a second, but only a second, as the symbiote whirrs, demanding, overriding any rational thought or empathy _._ He moves his hand to Cascabel’s jaw, the sensation of stubble unfamiliar against the artificial sensors, and leans in.

It’s clumsy at first, but then slow, gentler than Even expected. Cascabel smiles slightly against his lips and reaches up to pull Even in by the shoulders, seemingly unconcerned when some of Even’s hair brushes over his hands. The opposite, perhaps, as he twines his fingers around the tendril and tugs gently, huffing out a laugh when Even’s hand tightens in response.

Kissing Cascabel is good, but it’s not what he _needs_.

He lets his hand drop behind Cascabel’s back, onto the table, and gasps into Cascabel’s mouth as his fingers brush the sensor. The energy shoots up his arm in a moment, tracing heat up his veins and Even makes a half-choked noise, a warm haze settling over his mind as the symbiote takes control of more of his systems. It’s hard to care. _It’s_ making it hard to care.

It’s a flurry of sensations for some indefinable length of time - Cascabel’s fingers running carefully through his hair, the intense pleasure-pain of his body absorbing the sensor, the heady rush of endorphins as it’s fully integrated.

When Even comes fully back to himself, Cascabel is murmuring something, his voice low and fond, and brushing kisses over his face. Even huffs a nervous laugh and buries his face in Cascabel’s shoulder to avoid his gaze.

“You okay there, bud?” Cascabel’s voice is kindly amused.

“Just… got a bit overwhelmed. New body, y’know. Different nervous system.” Even tries, awkwardly.

There’s a pause before Cascabel huffs a small laugh and nods.

“Don’t worry about it,” he murmurs, rubbing his thumb over the back of Even’s neck. “I got you.”

**Author's Note:**

> please find me on twitter @sokratesnikon where i talk about friends at the table like 70% of the time, but especially ...Them


End file.
